


The Way It Is, Isn't

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://hawaii-50-hc.livejournal.com/34688.html">Hawaii Five-0 hurt/comfort comment-fic meme</a> prompt (which is <a href="http://hawaii-50-hc.livejournal.com/34688.html?thread=99456#t99456">here</a>) of:<br/>    <i>"Steve is held captive by bad guys and told that the rest of his team is dead. By the time they come to save him, he's pretty traumatised."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way It Is, Isn't

**Author's Note:**

> First posted in September 2011 on LJ (at the Hawaii Five-O hurt/comfort meme and in my journal).

_No._

A moment, a lifetime ( _three lifetimes_ ) ago he was sweating so badly kneeling here that the knees of his pants were damp, the sweat rolling down his body in rivulets of useless, goddamned fucking _useless_ adrenaline. Now he's cold.

Now he's so cold.

Now he's —

 _No._ No, no, no. No.

No.

No: so he has to — right now he has to —

 _(he's a SEAL, goddammit, he can do this)_

— lock it away.

Lock what just happened (lock Danny, Chin, Kono, _Danny_ ) away.

Because Keller's still breathing, still —and now Steve can hear him again over the echoes of the shots that keep repeating in his ears (echoes that he knows aren't going away ever, even if he lives through this, even if he keeps living through this) — still _laughing_.

 _Laughing._

"You're a dead man," Steve says. His voice sounds scraped raw, maybe because his throat feels scraped raw, scraped around the word _no_ (and he knows it's still there, that _no_ , lodged in his throat; no matter how many times he says it out loud, yells it, fucking _screams_ it, during whatever future he has left, he won't be free of it —

he shouldn't be free of it. Shouldn't. Shouldn't. Shouldn't.)

Keller laughs again. "You and what army, Commander?" he says. ('Navy, Danny, it's the _Navy_ ' — Christ, _Danny_.) "Your merry little band of mischief-makers is thoroughly dead. As you just heard." Keller turns his back on Steve and walks to the crate where he left the now-silent phone, snaps it shut. "Technology is so helpful, don't you agree, Commander?"

Steve doesn't answer. That this time he heard the voices (Danny, Chin, Kono, _Danny_ ) on speaker-phone, heard the fucking shots on speaker-phone, heard the following dead ( _dead_ ) silence on speaker-phone, just to save Keller the trouble of holding the phone close to Steve's ear for a couple of moments, isn't any more helpful than anything else has ever been.

Keller _is_ a dead man. Steve doesn't know how yet — his legs are numb from kneeling on the concrete floor of the warehouse for hours now; his hands are cuffed behind his back too tightly for dislocating his thumbs to work; his vision's blurring in and out thanks to the blow he took on the back of his head, the hit that landed him here — but Keller's _dead_. The three decently armed MoFo's Keller's got with him look to be halfway well-trained, so Steve's odds of surviving Keller for more than a moment or two aren't impressive; good thing that isn't important. Taking Keller down is the only thing that's important.

After that?

There isn't anything after that.

Not anything important, anyway.

A cell phone rings. Not Steve's phone, which is still sitting on the crate (Steve's phone ringing earlier, playing Danny's ringtone for the last time; that can't be right — not for the last time, _no_ ), but a phone in Keller's pocket. Keller answers it and frowns slightly, starts talking in what sounds like one of the Slavic languages; some language Steve can't even pick out any words from. It should be a relief to have Keller's gloating attention focused somewhere else, but Steve isn't going to be finding any kind of relief in anything anytime soon. That's over. It's helpful, though, to have Keller distracted. It gives Steve more of an opening.

Two of Keller's goons are in front of Steve, flanking their boss. The third is behind Steve and to his right at four o'clock. None of them have their guns trained on him right now (now that the main event, the _fun_ , is over), clearly figuring they'll have plenty of time to react if Steve starts to make a move.

Handy how somebody can be (dead) wrong at the same time they're (dead) right. Steve's used that very human tendency before against targets who put a little too much confidence in logical assumptions — if people believe one (reasonable) thing very strongly, they sometimes forget to allow for the possibility of anything (reasonable or not) else.

He's doing isometrics now, tensing and relaxing his muscles subtly enough that nobody's paying attention to the fact that in a minute or less he'll have worked the numbness out of his legs and be ready to act.

He'll have to go straight for Keller. It's his only play; taking one of Keller's men out for a few minutes with a roundhouse kick is more than doable but wouldn't buy Steve anything useful, not with his hands out of the game and two other fuckers a few yards away who'll already be going for their guns. He's not one hundred percent positive he can get the angle and the power he needs to snap Keller's neck with his first kick, though, and it's not likely he'll have time for a second kick.

So he'll jump Keller instead: bring the bastard down with him, use his body as cover for the few seconds it'll take to be absolutely fucking sure Leo Keller is buzzard food; Steve knows several ways to achieve that goal in close quarters even with his hands and arms out of the picture.

The hired gun at Steve's four o-clock is getting bored, moving restlessly; his reaction time is becoming less predictable, and it's cutting Steve's window down to _now_.

Good. He's ready for this to be over.

Go. _Go._

Even as he makes it onto his feet in one fluid move and launches himself at Keller he thinks he sees red dots blink into existence on the chests of both the goons bracketing Keller. Thinks he hears shouts. Thinks he hears _Danny's_ voice, shouting (maybe Danny's right for once, then; he does need therapy, but really, Danno? It doesn't much matter anymore) as he hears gunshots (sniper rifle along with handguns —SWAT? what the fuck?), as he reaches Keller and makes his jump, hits the floor on his back with Keller locked between his thighs, twists to —

Do this. Yes.

Keller is dead weight across Steve's body. Dead and damp: his last act, suitably enough, having been to piss himself. Steve absently wishes he could've taken the time to do this right, make Keller piss himself, shit himself _consciously_ , aware for much longer than one split second of how inevitably death was coming for him.

Danny wouldn't approve of that.

Danny. Oh, God. _Danny._

It's over.

It's all over. Steve knows he should be doing something right now, something he's not doing. Wondering why Keller's mercs didn't manage to get a bullet in him, for one thing; why they aren't shooting now. Seeing if it really was SWAT, if he really did hear sniper rifles, for another thing. Making sure he stays alive. But instead he's just lying here on the floor with a dead man's piss dampening his pants where Keller's groin is currently draped across Steve's lower legs; he's lying here and feeling lost because it's _over_.

 _It's over._

He should probably start trying to make sense of the noises he's hearing — running footsteps, shouts, sirens — but underneath those noises are the other sounds, the ones Steve can't stop hearing over and over again, the ones he's never going to stop hearing over and over again.

Lock. It. Away.

He feels hands on his face, on each side of his face. Hands he knows. Impossible hands. _Dead_ hands. Hands he won't ever feel again except in flashbacks, in nightmares; maybe sometimes, if he's lucky, in plain, ordinary dreams.

"Babe, you all right? Steve, _Steven_ , open your eyes for me, okay? I need you to open your eyes here."

He hadn't realized his eyes _were_ closed but he's glad they are, because that's Danny's voice, and Danny is _dead_ , and Steve's so fucking tired of his mind playing tricks on him, so fucking tired of everything.

The weight lying across Steve's legs rolls away (Keller, right, that was Keller; Keller, who had his thugs put guns to Steve's team's heads and shoot them point-blank, _Keller_ ) and Steve grits his teeth. He's not done yet. He wants to be, but this isn't done yet.

There's Chin's family. The Kalakauas. Rachel.

 _Grace._ (Danny will kill him for doing this to Gracie. Danny _should_ kill him.)

He can't imagine that any of them — the Kellys, the Kalakauas, Danny's ex-wife, Danny's _daughter_ — will want anything to do with him (he's failed them all, he fucking knows that) but he owes it to all of them, the dead and the living, to do what he can. Anything he can. Whatever they'll let him do.

 _Then_ he can be done.

Someone's rolling him onto his side, cautiously, like they think he's going to lash out (they could be right) or they think he's injured (he's not), and fuck, now he's hallucinating Chin's voice, not just Danny's.

 _Chin._ This was supposed to be a new start for Chin, not an ending.

It's... _sick_ to be hearing Danny and Chin so clearly, and yeah, Kono now too, sounding breathless and worried (how can he have gotten Kono killed? Kono is so beautiful, so strong, so _alive_ ), and it's just so fucking _sick_ , but he isn't strong enough to deny himself this. He lets the imaginary voices wash over him, ignoring the words; just lets himself pretend for this one hopeless minute that they're real. That his team is still alive. His family is still alive. His partner —

— _Danny_ is still alive.

Hands work at Steve's wrists, and the cuffs release with a click and an easing of pressure. Other hands are patting him down, probably checking for broken bones and bullet holes, finding nothing. Which Steve could tell them, but if he opens his mouth he knows the voices will change, will stop being Danny and Chin and Kono, will turn into whoever they really are: SWAT team members, HPD detectives, whatever. He's not ready to give up this last moment of self-delusion yet.

Especially since Danny's starting to sound truly pissed off, and Steve isn't sure he's going to be able to handle not having Danny be pissed off at him ever again.

Even for a little while.

The problem is, this game Steve's head is playing is escalating. He can smell the faint scent of mingled salt and gun oil and white ginger that means Kono, feel her strong, small-boned hands rubbing his wrists. He can smell Chin's aftershave, too; almost feel the steady weight of Chin's regard, feel it shift as he hears Chin — hears _someone_ — stand up and walk a few steps away, say something to somebody about the phone (Steve's fucking, goddamned motherfucking phone).

And Danny? Oh, Christ, _Danny_ — Danny's right here with him, hands, scent, voice. Berating him, and it's so fucking wonderful (so fucking sick; Steve knows he's so _fucking_ sick), and Steve's not going to open his eyes, not going to blow this, not going to —

There are hands (Danny's hands — no, _somebody's_ hands) on his face again, hands at his eyes, pulling — no, no, _no_ — pulling his eyelids up. Trauma check, he knows that, but he's Not. Going. To. Play, not going to _look_ , and he's twisting away (trying to be careful about it: these people are not the enemy, he needs to remember that, even if they're trying to take him away from —)

 _Danny?_

It can't be. But it fucking looks like Danny, right in Steve's face, like always.

Danny's mouth is moving (saying what? Steve can't tell; not over the roaring in his ears, over the sound of gunshots, of duct tape being ripped off skin, of last words, of fucking _gunshots_ , over and over again). His eyes — Danny's eyes, always so full of sparks — are worried and angry and seem so very real that Steve knows he's lost it; he's slipped all the way over the fucking _edge_.

That gets him up and halfway across the warehouse in a hurry (leaving whoever — whoever it is that his mind has been pretending is Danny — sitting on his ass on the grimy concrete), before things can get any worse. Before he hurts someone (gets them _killed_ ). The _no_ that's been trapped in Steve's throat for forever now is starting to work free again, quietly this time, but his throat still feels raw with it for all that it's coming out (and out again, and again and again) as a whisper.

Chin (but not Chin) and Kono (but not Kono) are pulling not-Danny to his feet and then all three of them are wavering towards Steve. Or maybe Steve's the one who's wavering. His head, now that he's standing (and Keller's dead, and Steve is indulging himself in some sort of sick psychotic break) is killing him.

Not as fatally as a bullet. Three bullets.

Four bullets.

Keller's thugs' bullets. Hesse's bullet.

Steve's _fault_. All four times.

It's a relief (a relief he hasn't earned, doesn't fucking _deserve_ ) when his vision stops wavering and blacks out entirely, and the warehouse floor rushes up to meet him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When he wakes up his head is still killing him.

That doesn't keep him from remembering. _Danny, Kono, Chin._

Dead.

 _Lock it away. Lock it_ away, _McGarrett. You're not done yet._

He _isn't_ done yet.

At least he's alone at the moment, and he's not at the warehouse any longer. Although as far as Steve's concerned a hospital bed isn't all that much of an improvement over the warehouse, but it doesn't matter anyway since Steve's not staying here.

He sits up (not too dizzy, good) and swings his legs off the bed, turns off the IV pump and pulls the needle out of the back of his hand. Stands up (still not too dizzy, still good) and checks the small closet at the back of the room for his clothes. They're there, stuffed in a plastic bag with his boots, his watch, his wallet (not his badge or his gun, or his keys), and he gets dressed.

When he's walking past the lone chair in the room he stumbles (okay, maybe he's a little dizzy, but nothing bad enough to keep him here), and he has to put out a hand to steady himself. The vinyl's warm, like somebody was sitting there for a while and just got up a moment ago (Danny, it should've been Danny sitting there, waiting for Steve to wake up, but Steve knows it wasn't, so it doesn't matter who it actually _was_ ). The chair's empty and the hallway's deserted, and both of those things make this easier. He doesn't need to deal with red tape right now.

He doesn't need anything. Not anything he can have, anyway. But he wants to go home, just for an hour or two, get in the ocean, get himself together (somehow, for long enough, anyway) before he goes to talk to the Kellys, to Kono's family, to Rachel and Grace.

Then he can be done.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Swimming keeps him from drowning. The ocean (like it always does) keeps Steve from drowning.

Even when he doesn't want it to.

The ocean (like it always does, even when he doesn't want it to) shows him the truth. _The only easy day is yesterday_ : he can't stop swimming. He can't.

 _'I will never surrender of my own free will.'_ He wants to out swim those words, his sworn code of conduct; leave them behind, but he _can't_.

Danny's right: he's a fucking freak, and it's going to hurt so goddamned much without Danny, so goddamned fucking much without —

"So help me God, Steven, if you don't get your concussed and terrifyingly insane ass back to shore this fucking minute I'm calling your military buddies to bring some of their fancy rescue equipment and yank you out of the water like a six-foot idiotic _fish_ , then throw you in a padded cell somewhere, where, I promise you, I have absolutely no intention of ever visiting you, you complete and total _asshole._ Stop _swimming_ already, goddammit!"

Steve blinks water out of his eyes, shakes it out of his ears. He can't be hearing Danny's voice _here_ , can't be hearing Danny's voice sounding like it's coming from a couple of yards away, sounding so fucking _real_ , gasping between words, spitting out occasional mouthfuls of water.

He stops swimming and turns in the water, looks back towards the beach.

Straight at Danny. Who's in the water a few yards away, red-faced, panting like a steam engine, looking so real Steve doesn't think he can stand it.

He isn't _allowed_ to surrender, fuck it all, so he says (to himself, to the trick of light this has to be, to whoever or whatever is screwing with his mind so sadistically), " _Please_ , Danny."

"Please _what_?" Danny says back. Or shouts. "What the fuck is wrong with you, you have a _concussion_ , you jackass, are you _trying_ to kill yourself?"

And that's enough, that's not _fair_ — "You know I can't do that," Steve yells back; the Danny-figment of Steve's imagination _knows_ that, knows Steve has to keep going, no matter what, no matter how hard it is. Steve's voice drops, because he doesn't want to say what he has to say next. "Just leave me alone, Danny, _please_. Please. I can't handle you rubbing it in my face right now, okay?"

The swells rise and fall between them. Danny (Steve's imaginary Danny) treads water efficiently, for all Danny's claims of hating the ocean. "Rubbing it in your face," Danny says flatly, like he really doesn't get it. "Rubbing what in your face? You can start making sense any time now, McGarrett, although I realize that's never easy for someone with your —"

"You're _dead_ ," Steve interrupts, goaded. He's yelling again. He can't help it. "You're dead, all of you are dead, and I'm so fucking sorry — God, Danny, what the hell am I going to tell _Gracie_?" He takes in a mouthful of water around Grace's name but it doesn't matter; his voice was dying anyway, the _no_ trapped inside his throat starting to expand and making it hard to talk.

Making it hard to breathe. So hard to breathe.

Danny ( _not_ Danny) is swimming towards him, closing the distance. Danny's not being fair, not being fair at all, but Steve knows he deserves it. He deserves whatever Danny ( _not_ Danny, Steve knows that) wants to dish out.

So he waits there, treading water, watching Danny come closer. Listens to Danny muttering, the words gradually separating themselves from the background sounds of the ocean, turning into Danny saying, "Shit, you seriously think — you can't seriously think — _shit_. Steven, what the ever-loving fuck is going on with you _now_ , huh?"

Then Danny's right in front of Steve, lifting a hand out of the water and cupping Steve's jaw with his palm. It feels so real Steve wants to fucking break apart.

"Nobody's dead, babe," Danny says. "I'm not dead. See? Right here. I am not dead, I promise you. Whatever the fuck happened to make you think I'm dead, that anybody besides Keller and his squad of stooges is dead, I don't know, but you have to believe me here. Everything's okay. The only thing that isn't okay is us being out in the ocean when we need to be back on dry ground, all right? We just need to swim back to shore and everything will be okay. Trust me."

Steve does trust Danny. He doesn't trust himself, not now, not anymore, but he's too tired to keep swimming and no matter what Danny (Danny? _not_ Danny? Steve doesn't even know anymore) says, he isn't trying to kill himself.

"Okay," he says to Danny, and starts swimming towards the beach, Danny right beside him. Danny's breaststroke is solid, if not very fast, and Steve eases into a slow sidestroke, pacing himself to match Danny's pace.

He isn't going to think about what happens when he gets back to shore and it turns out that he wasn't wrong, that this Danny is all Steve's imagination, that _his_ Danny, the real Danny, is still dead.

He isn't going to think about anything at all. Just swimming; swimming, and not drowning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When he wakes up, his head is killing him. _Again_ , Steve thinks, but he doesn't remember why he's thinking 'again.' He's sprawled out on his bed in a pair of boxers and a tank top he doesn't remember putting on, and the lamp beside his bed is on (isn't it supposed to be morning, not night?), and he hears Danny's voice downstairs, sounding distracted. That's not exactly SOP, maybe, him in bed while Danny's here, but why that — or something — is making Steve's stomach muscles clench is eluding him right now.

Like everything else seems to be eluding him right now.

Maybe he should find out what's going on. That's enough to get him out of bed and out into the hallway, where he almost ends up kissing the floor — fuck, his head really _is_ killing him. At least he gets his balance back in time to manage leaning against the wall instead of face-planting. Downstairs, Danny's still talking, but there aren't any other voices, which means Danny's on the phone.

And he's clearly not very happy about something. It's ridiculous how comforting Steve finds that, like he's had a Danny-shaped hole in his life all day (even if he doesn't _remember_ today), and Danny's familiar anger is filling it back up.

"— disoriented," Danny's saying, although now he's not sounding angry so much as he's sounding worried. "Yeah, I know, but I think he's better off here. I can always cuff him to his bed if I have to. Did you dig up anything about what might've happened between him and Keller? Because seriously, Chin, Steve is fucking around the _bend_ about something. I need to know what happened; all I'm getting out of Steve is that he thinks I'm dead, which let me tell you —"

Danny's voice cuts off and there's silence, a long enough silence that Steve closes his eyes and lets his back slide down the wall until he's sitting on the floor. He's so fucking _tired_.

"Jesus fucking goddamned _Christ_ ," he hears Danny say at some point; Steve can't remember the last time Danny's sounded so furious. "Jesus fucking — that… that… okay, I can't think of anything comprehensively damning enough to call that sick son-of-a-bitch right now, but tomorrow? Tomorrow I'm going down to the morgue and ripping the fucker's gonads off with my hands and stuffing them down his _throat_. For starters… No, I know, but it will make me feel a little better. If anything can make me feel better about this. Jesus, Chin, how much of this shit does Steve have to fucking _take_?" Something thuds hard against something else downstairs, followed by a grunt from Danny, and Steve winces. He knows that particular thud and the grunt it tends to get followed up by: fist through drywall, and shouldn't he be wondering why Danny's decided to remodel the McGarrett family home with his knuckles?

 _Tomorrow_ , he thinks, with a sigh. He'll ask Danny about it tomorrow. But that's no reason Danny shouldn't take care of his hand tonight. "You should put ice on that, Danno," he calls out. "There's an ice-pack in the freezer you can strap around your knuckles."

Danny says something too quietly for Steve to hear; maybe he's still talking on the phone. Then he says, louder, "What, you got a spy sat set up down here now?" His voice moves away, towards the kitchen. "Also, you realize that if your ass is currently not in your bed _where it's supposed to be_ , you are in serious shit, my friend. You promised me you would stay in bed, remember?"

"No," Steve says, honestly. He doesn't remember promising that. He doesn't remember getting in bed in the first place tonight. Or much of anything else, except that his head keeps hurting.

And that this morning everything was okay. He remembers that. He just doesn't remember what happened in between this morning — when everything was okay — and tonight, which, even if he can't remember why, _isn't_ okay.

"No, of course you don't remember, that would be too easy," Danny says, and he's back from the kitchen, climbing up the stairs. He looks almost as tired as Steve feels, but like he still needs to punch something. He's got the ice pack in his hand but not _on_ his hand yet, and Steve raises his eyebrows.

"Plenty of drywall up here, too," he says to Danny, "just watch out for the studs."

Danny snorts and looks down at the ice pack, his fingers fiddling with the Velcro strap for a moment before he yanks the strap open.

God. No. _God._

Duct tape, ripping off skin. Kono's voice, only one word, " _Boss_ ," and the sound of a revolver's hammer being cocked —

 _Gunshot._

Duct tape, again, ripping away from skin. This time it's Chin's voice. " _Brah, don't_ —"

Gunshot.

Duct tape. Danny. _Danny._ " _Steve_ —" Danny pauses, the barest pause, " _tell Gracie_ —"

 _Gunshot._

Then silence.

So much goddamned silence.

He remembers now; Christ, he remembers it all now, and Keller's dead but that doesn't fucking _help_ , and he needs to go see Grace, to tell her Danno's not here anymore — Christ, he needs to pull it together, not lose it like this sitting on his hallway floor; he needs to —

"No, no, no — can you hear me, babe? Keller _manufactured_ that phone call, Steve, you hear me? Nobody's dead. _Nobody's dead._ Chin, Kono, me, we're all fine. Steve, look at me. _Steven. McGarrett!_ " The voice suddenly has a snap to it that makes Steve automatically straighten to attention, open his eyes.

It's Danny.

 _Danny._

"That's it," Danny says, the same tone in his voice now that he uses to try to coax Grace into something. "That's it; you got it, right? All you have to do here is listen to me. Keller got recordings of our voices — turns out he had a little surveillance equipment of his own, yeah? — and he spliced shit together to come up with that garbage. It was all fake, babe. He was screwing with your head, the motherfucking donkey-sucking son-of-a-bitch."

"Fake," Steve says, staring at Danny (Danny, _Danny_ ). His voice sounds strange, strained.

"Fake," Danny agrees, fervently. He leans forward — he's kneeling beside Steve, when did that happen? — and rests his forehead against Steve's.

"Why?" Steve asks.

He can barely hear his own voice but Danny's right there, so close, so goddamned wonderfully close, and Danny hears him. "We don't know yet," Danny says, "but we'll find out. My guess? Victor fucking Hesse is somewhere near the bottom of this shit-pile."

 _Hesse._ Of course. Steve's way off his game; he should've seen that coming a mile away. He tries to clear his throat. "Yeah," he says, louder than he managed before, and nods his head sharply, which makes Danny's head nod, too; makes Danny smile a little.

Then he stands up and looks down at Steve, still smiling. "Now that we've got your fit of vapors out of the way — we have, haven't we? because I'm seriously done with trying to convince you I'm not dead when Hello, still _here_ , right in front of you — you, my concussed friend, are making good on that promise you so conveniently don't remember and going back to bed. And staying there, if I have to kneecap you to keep you from getting up and carting your concussion around the house and the Pacific ocean and anywhere else you decide you just _have_ to be right now instead of resting like you're supposed to be doing."

"My fit of _vapors_? SEALS don't have fits of _vapors_ , Danny," Steve grumbles, but without any heat. Because Danny's alive. Chin's alive. Kono's alive. They're all alive.

"You heard me, princess," Danny says, and he's smirking now as he reaches a hand towards Steve to help him up. Which normally would be insulting but Steve isn't entirely sure he _can_ stand up without help right at this moment, and Danny? Danny's strong, always so fucking strong.

And alive, and _here_.

The tiredness hits again, hard, as soon as Steve starts down the hallway, and the next few minutes are a blur until he finds himself lying in his bed, the sheet pulled halfway up his chest, and Danny standing beside the bed setting the alarm Steve keeps on his nightstand. "Neurological checks," Danny's saying, "not that I'll be able to tell if anything goes wrong, what with you being a hopeless headcase anyway even on your best days, but since you had to pull a Houdini and leave the hospital AMA — and I was only out of your room for three minutes, how do you _do_ shit like that — you're stuck with me and my tender ministrations. Or more to the point, I'm stuck with you, and you're going to owe me big-time for this, _capische_?"

Danny clicks the lamp off, and Steve sighs in the darkness, the sudden quiet. It's not really dark, though; the moon's nearly full and its light pours in through the curtains, showing Danny just standing there, looking down at Steve and not saying anything. Then he turns away, and Steve feels the _no_ that was stuck in his throat earlier crowding him again, wanting out, making his throat raw, even though there's not any reason for it, no reason any longer for —

"Hey," Danny says, soft. "I'm not leaving." And he doesn't leave. He walks around the foot of the bed and lies down on the other side. On top of the covers, but then he still has all his clothes on except for his tie.

Which doesn't exactly seem comfortable. Or fair. The foot of the bed is in shadow and Steve says, "Shoes?" just to be a jerk.

"On the floor, for Christ's sake," Danny says. "I don't wear shoes to bed — _you're_ the Neanderthal in this partnership, how many times do I have to remind you of that?" He sounds like he's smirking again.

Steve smiles and breathes in deeply. And for a few peaceful minutes everything's okay, Danny breathing quietly beside him, the ocean breathing quietly outside Steve's window; everything's fine. Then without any warning it _isn't_ okay anymore. Kono, Chin, Danny — they're all alive and it's fine, everything's supposed to be _fine_ , but Steve isn't going to make this, he's fucking not going to make it _through_ this time —

"Hey," Danny says again. " _Hey._ Steve."

" _Why?_ " Steve's voice cracks on the word and he hates it, hates himself, hates the fucking stupid question; he doesn't even know what he's asking. Why _what?_

Why did Keller go to all that trouble to fuck him over? Steve doesn't need to ask that question. He _knows_ Hesse was pulling the strings somehow.

Why does he get it so fucking wrong with Hesse, every single time? He doesn't know the answer to that question, but he knows he can't keep getting it so wrong; he never had that luxury in the first place but he has it even less now.

Why is Danny _here_ , stretched out beside Steve instead of sacking out in the spare bedroom? And maybe that's not Steve's only question, but it's the one he really needs an answer to, _now_ : Why is Danny —

" _Because_ ," Danny says, his hand wrapping around Steve's forearm. He doesn't say anything else for a long time, while Steve sucks in air and tries to pretend he isn't fucking _trembling_ , but he rubs his thumb back and forth along Steve's arm, lightly, like he doesn't even notice Steve's stupid weakness.

"That's the main reason," Danny says eventually, when Steve's muscles finally start relaxing, his whole body's tension eased somehow by the gentle slide of Danny's thumb against two inches of Steve's skin, back and forth, back and forth, sweet and slow. "Of course there are _other_ reasons," Danny goes on after a moment, "none of which I'm going to go into tonight, because I need my beauty sleep and you? You need a week on horse tranquilizers and half a dozen exceptionally thorough psychiatric evaluations before you're safe enough to let out in public again, Mr. Mental Health Poster Boy." Danny's thumb stops moving and his grip on Steve's arm tightens. "Another thing? The way you went after Keller today, Steve? You'd better pray your concussion sticks around for a good long time, because the minute you get off the DL I'm reaming you a new asshole about that, and I'm warning you right now that I plan to use something large and spiky — maybe a pineapple, you should appreciate my embracing your native flora this way — for said reaming. You fucking made my _heart_ stop, McGarrett. You didn't know we were there; don't even try to tell me you knew we were there — I know goddamn well that wasn't one of your lunatic Rambo ninja super-SEAL maneuvers where you at least have a plan, albeit a scarily half-assed, moronic plan, to take down all the bad guys and get all the good guys — in this case, _you_ — out safely. You weren't planning anything except taking Keller down, and you were two seconds away from being dead, babe. Not fake dead, _genuine_ dead. I am seriously — _seriously_ — pissed off at you."

"Yeah, okay," Steve says. Mumbles, really, because his head hurts and he's so fucking tired, and this is familiar and good, Danny bitching him out, and Danny's hand is still on Steve's arm; Danny's here, staying, _alive_. "Okay," Steve mumbles again, settling down a little further under the sheets.

"Yeah?" says Danny, and Steve can hear the start of a reluctant smile in his voice. He can hear worry in Danny's voice too, and exhaustion, and something running deeper, the thing they have between them, the thing they never talk about.

"Yeah," Steve agrees and sighs, and lets himself fall down into sleep as Danny's thumb begins to smooth back and forth along his arm again.


End file.
